I’ve been getting schooled in the world of real estate lately. One of the main lessons I’ve learned is that two bedrooms are a bad investment, and that living under the power lines are not for me. On Saturday, the Asian dragged me to Mariella’s to try on bridesmaid dresses. I, in turn, dragged her to Hartford to look at a house my friend’s family had rehabbed and was selling. We took a tour of the lovely house–which got an offer that day (and apparently Hartford will give first-time home buyers thousands of dollars to fund the purchase)–and on our way down Granby toward Albany Ave. we came across a rabid raccoon. It was stumbling in the road and I’m pretty sure my Asian chauffeur didn’t see it until I’d yelled repeatedly about the animal stumbling and staggering all over the road in front o us. I called the police–hopefully they got to it before it got to a child.
On Sunday I rounded up my mother and my cousin and headed back out on the road with Sandra, this time comparing a few more East Hartford houses to New Britain. We saw a number of short sales in East Hartford, many of which were in very nice houses that had seen better days. One had a yard so big I would have needed a goat and two more little brothers to tend it.
New Britain was more interesting. They have some really lovely houses there. The first house on our West of the River adventure was a little two bedroom in near perfect condition. It had a huge kitchen. But I kept hearing that nagging “no two-bedrooms” voice in the back of my head.
We also saw a three bedroom that was beautifully redone but next to what looked like a two-family house with six mailboxes on it. It was super-cheap and eligible for city-financing as a city-owned property but the garbage from the 700 neighbors next door was just too much for me to handle. I did fall in infatuation with a little bungalow near CCSU, though. It was just so dang cute. Again, only two bedrooms–but this time with a big, walk-up attic. In other words, it has third bedroom potential. It is, however, really overpriced–and has an oil tank, which I don’t want to deal with.
But earlier, I’d met my friend’s mother at one of her other rehab projects–what we’ll call “The Before.” This thing was a disaster. The kind of place you look at and wonder how anyone had been living in. But once it is finished it will be practically perfect, like new, and the work will have been done by people I consider to be my second family. The question, though, is, “Can I afford it?”
Tune in next week to find out.